


Celandine

by faeithful



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Burning of the Ships at Losgar (Mentioned), Established Relationship, Gondolin, Homoerotic Sparring Montage, Language of Flowers, M/M, Pre-Fall of Gondolin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26316898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeithful/pseuds/faeithful
Summary: “You are here,” Glorfindel said with no small amount of awe, and it rang clear even in Ecthelion's memory. He would have known Glorfindel's voice from a league under water.
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	Celandine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piyo13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/gifts).



> Written for Piyo13's beautiful artwork of Ecthelion and Glorfindel in Gondolin, please check it out _[here!](https://piyo13sdoodles.tumblr.com/post/627893555801751552/some-tolkienrsb-art-with-faeithful-pre-fall)_

The more golden the hours upon Gondolin, the slower time went. Ecthelion did not mind; the isolation suited him just fine, and the city had all he needed. He did his best to make it feel like home for those who were restless, and this clear morning he followed Glorfindel as the other distributed sunflowers. He was slightly taller, and the sun kindled sparks in his hair although it did not yet reach Ecthelion. Glorfindel's fingers were dipped in soil as he checked its water content before handing the potted plant over to its new keeper, the flower small enough to stay in its place but large enough to follow the Sun. Its meaning was not lost, and the sunflowers that had come before sat proudly before doors.

Minutes were no measure of time in Gondolin, except for meetings; Ecthelion measured his time in the hidden city in moments, usually spent alongside Glorfindel. There was a rhythm to moments that he had not known before he followed Turgon into the mountains with his people, written in 7/8 time. It always followed the same pattern, but the uneven stretch between moments still caught Ecthelion off guard.

He watched Glorfindel pass his flowers around and thumbed the flute at his hip. Glorfindel had asked him a few times why he composed so many pieces in 7/8 time, and though he had not exactly understood what Ecthelion was trying to convey, he was always a lovely captive audience.

"Have you considered recording the songs of Valinor?" Glorfindel was dusting off his hands, the last of his daily flowers delivered. Ecthelion had never been one of many words, and he colored upon realizing how well Glorfindel could read him. "You could change their times."

Ecthelion forced his fingers away from his flute. They still had more walking to do that morning. "I have not," he admitted, and when Glorfindel extended his arm, he took it. "I suspect the languages of the other kingdoms and races have changed while we have been in Gondolin. It would be foolish to preserve something archaic."

Sunlight splattered the stones, and Glorfindel followed the newly growing paths. Ecthelion followed him willingly in turn, and stopped when Glorfindel did before the golden and silver trees. "Is this not in memory of Song?" Glorfindel turned to Ecthelion, waiting for a reply, and the leaves of Glingal reflected his radiance.

"Turgon's art created a memory of the Trees in which all can share," Ecthelion agreed, and Glorfindel seemed rather pleased with himself.

"Preserving the songs of Valinor is preserving the memory of their places in the Great Song. Your skill in this art is greatest of all the Lords of Gondolin." The wind whistled through the gilded branches of the two trees as Glorfindel spoke, and Ecthelion closed his eyes to hear their harmonies. The sound of wind on metal itself was sharp, but Glorfindel's voice was textured velvet, rising and falling with his tone.

Even before Ecthelion opened his eyes again, he knew that he would follow Glorfindel's advice. The rest of their stroll was warm, heated by the sun and cooled by the breeze. In the distance, the mountains hung purple, and Ecthelion remembered how he had always thought of Glorfindel in the summer, before they had stood beside Turgon together at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad or even when they had lead their followers away to follow Turgon's dream of a hidden city.

Summer in Middle Earth brought heats like Ecthelion had never known, even when he had lived close to the coast where the weather was usually the same. The scalding wind licked his skin, and it was far worse at night, when the Sun’s bright light was hidden yet the air hung heavy and warm. The heavenly light was not there to pull him away from the crackle of timbers, the acid of ash, the kiss of flames on his skin, and he always thought of Glorfindel.

The elven lord had shone as a lantern on the shore when Ecthelion first saw him, scrambling against drying decking and mostly obscured by smoke. His grip had been firm around Ecthelion’s wrists, his handprints long-lasting bruises. Glorfindel had pulled him out of the swan boat and into the water, and his hair had billowed around them both as he held Ecthelion’s head above water. He had spoken, Ecthelion was certain, but he had not been understood.

They had swum far from the beached remains of the boats to a rocky outcrop and hauled themselves on land, Glorfindel urging Ecthelion onwards even though they both faltered. It was there that he wrapped Ecthelion in his sodden cloak and offered a place to travel beside him, but Ecthelion had refused. Glorfindel had not taken back his cloak, and it hung in Ecthelion’s home in Gondolin still smelling of the salt of the sea. He had not left with any of the mariners, so it was faded, but to Ecthelion it meant his new home.

It had taken him much longer to arrive in Middle Earth than it had taken Glorfindel; Ecthelion had guessed as much, seeing as the other was traveling with Fëanor. Despite the distance and time that had worn at them, Ecthelion still remembered when they had first approached each other when departing with Turgon—but that paled in comparison to meeting again on the eve of their descent into the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. When many had turned away, Ecthelion had not, and he did not miss the way Glorfindel's eyes shone when he saw Ecthelion. “You are here,” Glorfindel said with no small amount of awe, and it rang clear even in his memory. He would have known Glorfindel's voice from a league under water. Their banners snapped in the wind and their steeds shifted, but Ecthelion was frozen under the moonlight. 

Together, they survived, and summer nights still vividly reminded Ecthelion of Glorfindel. He told Glorfindel as much that night, who leaned back against him and slotted his palms around Ecthelion’s wrists. The distinction between the old burns and intact skin was very faint—years did that to an elf, if one healed quickly—but Glorfindel found the shape of his palms matched the unharmed skin. Ecthelion let him hold his hands—he had had plenty of time to see them on his own, but the other had not.

❁ ❁ ❁

In the winter, not too many years after Ecthelion and Glorfindel rode into battle, the king ordered a Warden be placed at the Great Gate. Every proclamation, every speech given by Turgon suggested that he was confident in the city's secrecy and defensibility, but the order made Ecthelion wonder things he dared not speak.

Wind whistled through Ecthelion’s new station. It was loud, but a strange sort of noise compared to the reassuring rush of the city’s fountains. He stood atop the railings behind the gate and breathed in deeply; he could not see over the rimming mountains, but he swore on some days that he could still smell the sea. There was little water, and Ecthelion was grateful every time it was his turn to bathe. The well remained unpredictable despite his best efforts.

Ecthelion heard the trumpets as one of the lords approached, and it took little listening to discover that it was Glorfindel’s flourish. The gate and borders were shut by Turgon’s command, but Glorfindel’s excitement was just as clear as it had been when going hunting years ago. The day inched by as Glorfindel and his small train inched closer over the plain, and Ecthelion cursed his keen eyes for his impatience.

Glorfindel held his reins in his left hand and flowers in the right. Ecthelion could not identify them until the lord got close, but the guards stationed at the final gate began to murmur.

The rider leapt down and left his horse to present Ecthelion with roses—peach and red-tipped yellow. The ceremony of the exchange seemed to blend, although both executed the customs perfectly. The wall’s shade kept a chill in the air, but the flowers broke through it and Glorfindel burned through the rest. With him were several other friends from the city, but Ecthelion and Glorfindel ate somewhat apart from the rest that night, and Ecthelion's men knew better than to disturb them after.

It wasn’t until Glorfindel and his train had left in the early morning that Ecthelion discovered the writing woven around their stems. He kept the roses until he rode back to the city when the station changed, and he returned to Glorfindel holding them—they had not wilted. “Ah, the stem replacement worked! The resin held when the natural water would have rotted them.” Ecthelion nodded along, and Glorfindel’s sideways glance was more than slightly fond. “Despite your black thumb, they have managed to ‘live.’”

"Not fully alive, but not fully dead," Ecthelion agreed, bending to drink from the waters of the Fountain of the King. Glorfindel bent beside him, and Ecthelion cupped his palms to offer him some of the enchanted waters. "This water has the same meaning as a red-tipped yellow rose," Ecthelion admitted, once Glorfindel had accepted the drink from his hands. The water was sweet, and grew sweeter when Glorfindel dropped the mentioned rose into it.

Sounds of the city bounced through the Great Market on the edge of Gondolin, and a group of stray children swerved to avoid Ecthelion’s legs. Their eyes grew wide at the polished bearing of the lords, Glorfindel’s arm wrapped around so his hand rested on Ecthelion’s bicep. They kept pace, Glorfindel walking slightly slower when they turned.

“The freshest vegetables in the city here!”

“Miniature trees!” Glorfindel gave that stall owner a nod from over Ecthelion’s shoulder as they walked past, and she beamed.

“Accessories, one of a kind!”

Ecthelion’s ears perked up, and he slowed their pace. “Shall we?” He knew that Glorfindel was not one for coronets, but he did wear accessories. Often these pinned back some of his hair, although Ecthelion had still not learned how to keep the hair held properly.

As expected, Glorfindel was immediately drawn towards the hair pieces on the left side. The stall owner and Ecthelion exchanged a glance when Glorfindel slid his hand free. Ecthelion gave him space to inspect the pins and peered over his shoulder to catch glimpses of the metal ornaments.

Eventually, Glorfindel stopped walking back and forth to see the various pieces, and Ecthelion immediately saw the one he was interested in. It was easy for Ecthelion to pin it in after paying, and he carefully twisted a strand of Glorfindel’s hair around the pin’s post to secure it as the seller instructed. “Does that pull?”

Glorfindel shook his head, and the white gold flower danced. “Not at all.” When they stepped away, a curious flock of onlookers descended upon the accessories stall, and Glorfindel took Ecthelion’s proffered arm again.

Despite the noise of the passersby, it was a quiet day—a peaceful day. The wind smelled of the trees planted around the homes below, and a touch of smoke from the far side of the city coming to them from the directions of the draft. Seabirds far from their home pecked around the bases of the city’s towering white columns, searching for forgotten scraps or easy pickings to steal. Ecthelion narrowed his eyes at them, and a larger gull squawked in protest. “She says to feed her or leave,” the lord translated, and Glorfindel watched as Ecthelion broke into a smile, watching the gull hop beside them. Whether it was the fondness in Glorfindel’s eyes or a step too close in the bird’s direction that drove her off, the gull flapped off towards the center of the city without another word.

They meandered down the cobblestone streets away from the market, and the light reached an angle where Glorfindel could not keep watching Ecthelion for being blinded by the circlet and metallic textiles he wore. The taller of the trees provided some much-appreciated shelter from the pounding of the Sun, but neither would ever complain about the creation’s heat. The council they had been summoned to was near, so they rested near the largest of Ecthelion’s fountains and watched a few of the citizens toss offerings into the water. Once they went inside to partake in the council, they would be back to standing between the dramatic changes Tuor proposed and the seeming safety of the society Turgon had built and Maeglin advocated. But for now, Ecthelion’s sleeves were remarkably cool against Glorfindel’s palm and they were enjoying the last few moments of quiet for the day.

As they walked up the steps towards the Tower of the King, a rush of wings made both Glorfindel and Ecthelion look up. A small flock of seagulls alighted in the Fountain of the King, sending water rocking as their light bodies settled on the surface. Their leader called and Ecthelion answered, almost inaudible beneath the splash of the nearby fountains. Glorfindel knew that Ecthelion felt the sea-longing far more than many in the city, but the birds of his home put him at an ease that Glorfindel rarely saw. They continued on and soon the gulls were out of sight, and Ecthelion shook his head to himself. “They are horrible gossips, the white gulls. Nothing escapes them, especially if you want it to.”

❁ ❁ ❁

The gulls travelled on the next morning, leaving the fountains empty. Light tilted over the rim of Ecthelion’s favorite fountain, spilling into the bowl and scattering in the water. He braced himself and leaned over the edge to check the waterlilies for signs of insects like Glorfindel had taught him, their rich green deep against the pale backdrop of the base tiles. It was a decorative fountain, his last one to be finished, and one of its koi dodged the spray to mouth near his fingertips and the lily. 

Someone must have been feeding the fish, but it would be impossible to identify the culprit. Too many congregated beside his fountain now, drawn by the water that echoed in the white walls like the roar of the sea many would never again hear.

The Sun was rising. Few were out walking the streets, so Ecthelion toed off his sandals and took them in hand. The water rose to meet him as he stepped into it, and the fish scattered. Gondolin was quiet; his fountain was loud. The miniature boat bumped against his ankle, and he bent and nudged it out of the way. It went sailing off towards the Tower.

The benefit to the design of Ecthelion’s favorite fountain was that it butted against one of the last of Ecthelion’s outbuildings. It was central enough to be communal, but portions of it were free from the tokens the city tossed in tribute to Ulmo. The waterfall cascading down stones behind the fall was a front; Ecthelion stepped through, and the water did not touch him.

It was quiet inside the building, and the sounds of water lapped against him again and again. It had an unnatural echo—more white noise than waves, and while this may have bothered many, it did not bother Ecthelion. White tiles faded to black, and Ecthelion walked to the central isle of the flooded room. The back door was closed, and the strip of dry, ornate tiling path around the water was empty. The room was anything but quiet, and he was the loudest of all.

Water shed from his ankles when he climbed up the stairs onto the isle. A tree grew from the center, reaching upwards towards the light slanting in from the hole above; Ecthelion sat below the weeping fig, and he was not alone. 

It was peace in ceramic tiling and black marble. It was predictable, just like time had become.

Whereas Ecthelion was relatively untouched by his water, Glorfindel’s hair was still damp. He had come in from the front, and Ecthelion resisted the urge to snort—they had never been particularly subtle. Even the plant Glorfindel cupped in his palms was wet, although he assumed it was a plant meant for water.

“A lotus.” The plant glinted up at Ecthelion, its flower pearly in the light where it peeked out from between Glorfindel’s fingers. “For rebirth.”

Ecthelion looked at him before he took it, as he always did. Glorfindel’s hair was still tangled, although Ecthelion knew he would brush it out shortly. “And dreams.”

He cupped Glorfindel’s palms in his own, and the flower was transferred. It was heavier than Ecthelion had guessed, and he took a good look at it before placing it tenderly in the water before them. “Will it survive without mud feeding its roots?” He had never had as good a touch with plants as Glorfindel, but he had a suspicion the other cared for the plants in his fountains when he was not around.

“It should,” Glorfindel replied, watching it bob in the waves spawned by the waterfall. “Speaking of, some of my pond species could do with a new irrigation and pond system, if you might be interested?”

“I am always interested.” It was true; Ecthelion missed the waters of his home most of all, and the waters of ponds and fountains rang true in his ears. They soothed his longing, much like Glorfindel did.

Glorfindel pulled a comb from his pocket and held it up to the light. Ecthelion took it from him, recognizing it as the one crafted specifically for Glorfindel's hair, and helped reposition his lover so he could comb it through. Glorfindel leaned back against him, his shirt cold and clammy against Ecthelion’s skin, and Ecthelion debated on whether or not to bring it up.

“You must be cold.” He could feel the way Glorfindel’s shoulders tilted up as he smiled, and gripped the comb a bit tighter so it wouldn’t be pried from his fingers. He smoothed his palms from Glorfindel’s scalp down as he would soothe a horse.

“Perhaps, but I say you’re underdressed.”

Ecthelion pulled his hands back so Glorfindel could slide the simple tunic off. They knew to change later—this was not the first time Glorfindel had entered the room through the waterfall. Glorfindel leaned back and Ecthelion began to comb his hair from the back out. It was molten in the patches of light beneath the tree, and the tangles slipped free as Ecthelion followed the comb with the fingers of his other hand. Glorfindel shivered, but Ecthelion kept moving.

Even after the last of the tangles were vanquished, his fingers still ran through Glorfindel’s hair. It was yet early, and time passed slowly for the elves. Glorfindel dozed against his shoulder, and Ecthelion took the white gold daisy from his pocket and pinned it above his ear. It would leave a bend in the hair once it dried, but Ecthelion doubted Glorfindel would mind.

He stirred, however, green eyes unfocused but searching for Ecthelion. “What’d you dream about?”

And Glorfindel tilted his head back and beamed. “You, of course.”

“Charming as ever.” Their noses bumped, but Glorfindel did not move, and Ecthelion waited for him. “How do you know I won’t kill your plant?”

Glorfindel giggled. He laughed often, but a true giggle was rare. “Your tree still lives, as do your lilies, and the _very_ red roses.” He leaned up to steal a kiss, and Ecthelion found that he was still smiling. “They should be fine.”

“That’s a bold statement that I’m not sure I can follow through.”

“You’ll find a way,” said Glorfindel, and Ecthelion decided not to argue. His plants would live to see another day, and Glorfindel's pond species would go on his list of projects. There was always more to do, but sometimes it was difficult to fill the time that Gondolin gave them.

❁ ❁ ❁

The horses steamed in the heat of the early fall sun. Glorfindel carefully trimmed his mount’s mane until it was shorn to her neck before walking over to do the same to Ecthelion’s. Tuor held the mallet Turgon gave him in hand and turned it back and forth to find its balance. “This is a training exercise?” the man asked, and Ecthelion nodded.

“Yes. Fëanor created it to teach both rider and steed for battle.” Ecthelion’s mouth drew thin as he smiled, but he quickly shook his head as his mare drooled in his hair. “One of his more brilliant creations, I believe.”

Tuor hummed, and Ecthelion did not need to see to know Glorfindel was now behind him. “Someone’s talkative today!”

Ecthelion turned to press a kiss on his cheek before swinging himself into his saddle. Glorfindel hesitated a moment, taken enough off guard that Ecthelion had to reach down and grab his mallet rather than having it handed up to him. Their king’s new kin returned to his own pony and used his long legs to mount with ease.

“Did you not see that coming?” Glorfindel, Lord of Gondolin, did not pout, but it was a near thing given the lilt in Ecthelion’s tone.

“I am going to bruise your knees.”

“Be my guest.”

They tightened their reins at the same time, and their ponies shifted as they wrapped the ornate straps of their mallets around their hands and lifted them. “More incentive for me to win, then?”

———

The match was somewhat close to a stalemate at halfway. The citizens leaned against the city walls to watch the plays on the fields below, and Turgon sat atop his favorite elven-horse to inspect and rule upon the game. Ecthelion sipped from the goblet, a drink sweeter than water yet not clouding, and Glorfindel pressed against his shoulder. “Too hot, go somewhere else.”

“Call up some water if you’re so hot.”

Ecthelion resisted the urge to roll his eyes; the citizens were almost keener than the Eagles and would certainly notice such a gesture. Keeping their relationship a secret had lasted all of two moonrises, not even two days, but Ecthelion still had some standards and an image to maintain. “It doesn’t work in that manner and you know it.”

Glorfindel drew quiet, and Ecthelion offered him the cup. _Perhaps he had finally said too much, and should have been less talkative as usual._ Yet soon the other lord was shaking his head and smiling to himself before “accidentally” sloshing a bit of the goblet’s contents over Ecthelion’s shirt. “Well, at least now you’re cooler.”

Retaliation would come with victory. Ecthelion lifted the cup he had won and filled it from the stronger of the two available vats, but it did not remain filled for long. Glorfindel pushed his soaked flyaway hairs back from his forehead and eyes, blinking in stunned silence as the alcohol cascaded down to soak his skin and clothing. He had barely recovered when the cup was filled once again, but this time Glorfindel watched Ecthelion for movement.

The lord did not move. He blinked innocently, and Glorfindel huffed a sigh and took off his sodden shirt. Ecthelion was still not moving, but Glorfindel found himself choking on some of the drink as the remainder of the second cup drenched his bare skin. “I despise you,” Glorfindel groaned, although it had no heat to it whatsoever. “And now _I_ feel the chill.”

“The sun is warm,” offered Ecthelion, although his eyes suggested mischief, “and I am certain your house would enjoy seeing you warm up.”

Luckily for Ecthelion’s sake, Glorfindel had been planning to rewash and braid his hair that evening. But the ponies needed care and the plants needed water, so Glorfindel dried uncomfortably sweet and remained still somewhat damp for several hours. Worst of all, Ecthelion was exceedingly pleased with himself and Glorfindel hadn’t even heard Ecthelion sing.

❁ ❁ ❁

Of all the many elves in Gondolin who practiced the art of music, Ecthelion was certainly Glorfindel's favorite. He tagged along when Ecthelion went to sing for young Eärendel and play upon his flute, and sorted through the best of his branch trimmings so he could give one or two to Ecthelion to craft into a willow whistle. Ecthelion's voice was low when he spoke to the boy, but it rose clear in song and carved intricate melodies like the robins in the woods Glorfindel used to frequent. Idril sat beside him and watched Ecthelion with her son, and together they tested the wood.

When he was finished singing, Ecthelion took the branch Glorfindel and Idril had selected and brought it to the table he shared with Eärendel. "Will you carve it for me, Ecthelion?" As always, Ecthelion did, and Glorfindel once again marveled at the other's creation. Ecthelion's hands were gentle, but the work of his knife was clean and quick. His fingers smoothed over the carved wood as he checked for splinters before sliding the branch's bark over the notch, and both Eärendel and Glorfindel watched intently.

The willow whistle played, and as Eärendel amused himself, Ecthelion walked over to pick up the second branch Glorfindel had selected. "Thank you," Ecthelion said, and Glorfindel beamed. Trusting that Eärendel was under Idril's watchful eye, Ecthelion took a seat next to Glorfindel and carved another whistle. The first willow whistle was ear-piercingly sharp, and Ecthelion frowned as it continued to blow. Glorfindel had no doubt that he was trying to improve his previous design with the next one.

By the sixth whistle, Ecthelion had executed one that appeased the musician in his heart. It played a nice C, and when Eärendel blew in it he liked it best. Surrounded by wood dust and shavings and bark, Ecthelion grinned and resumed playing his flute. Even Eärendel, young as he was, immediately put the willow whistle aside to listen.

Ecthelion's flute was not the sound of one instrument—it was many, coaxed by his breath and fingertips into a cohesive shape. He played many songs and many pieces, fragments caught and snared from the original Song, and when it was just barely dark outside the windows, Ecthelion broke into what Glorfindel knew to be a march. It was one of the few pieces that Ecthelion ever played that was composed in 4/4, and although it was beautiful and sweet, it gave Glorfindel vivid memories.

As if he knew what Glorfindel was remembering, and he most likely did, Ecthelion glanced up and Glorfindel raised his eyebrows. He remembered the strangest details of riding down from the mountain: the unearthly glow of the fires below, the weight of the sword at his hip, the knot Ecthelion tied in his reins so they weren't loose when he lifted his flute and announced their entrance with the very same march. It bounced off the rocks and the sparks flew in the glass of Ecthelion's eyes, and Glorfindel could almost feel the pounding of his horse beneath him.

But that was years ago—Glorfindel was seated in a darkening room, watching his lover play the flute, light from a newly-lit fire bouncing off his silver. Eärendel nodded off slowly, but Idril caught him when he fell properly asleep and Ecthelion stayed just a bit longer to finish the next song. It was late winter, but the city was alive with the lights of lanterns and fires. 

With the return of summer arrived the tournaments. The most famous of these was held indoors, as it always was, in a hall hung with the banners of the houses flying high and a wide ring of sand against the back wall. The majority of the rest of the hall remained empty, cleared for the spectators who would pour in that afternoon.

Pale golden light filtered in and danced on naked blades. Sand compressed under the calves of Glorfindel’s boots as he went down hard; he caught himself on his elbows and his arms stung from friction. Ecthelion adjusted his fingers around the handle of his sword, more to give Glorfindel a moment than to correct his grip.

“This angle is most flattering.” If anything, Glorfindel sounded rather pleased that Ecthelion was winning the practice round, and that in the sand was exactly where he wanted to be.

Ecthelion nudged Glorfindel’s ankle with the toe of his thin leather boot, ignoring the knowing smile it earned him. “I certainly hope you put up more of a fight during the tournament, or it will be over far too soon.” The muffling quiet of the room made the shadows seem darker where Glorfindel lay in the shade of one of the pillars, but his hair caught the edges of the light from the nearest window.

“Yield.” He had been down for quite some time, and Ecthelion raised an eyebrow before pulling Glorfindel up with his free hand. “I fancy your chances tonight, Ecthelion.”

The air was overly warm; Ecthelion was not looking forward to pulling a tunic back on and walking home through the city streets, only to later dress in ceremonial robes over his sparring gear. “The tournament is in the afternoon,” he replied, focusing on getting the items he had brought organized.

The gentle grip of Glorfindel’s fingers turning his arm over to check for strain was familiar, as was the soft chuckle. “I did not speak of the tournament.” But before Ecthelion could turn around or speak, Glorfindel was letting go of him and stepping away. He handed his somewhat sandy sword to Ecthelion and swept backwards, making no move to go get his own tunic from where it was folded and placed near a pillar. “I am going to jump in one of your fountains to wash off.”

Ecthelion cringed. “Please don’t.”

Most large gatherings in Gondolin involved the vast majority of the city and both of their houses, but the hall in which the tournament was held that year was too small for everyone. Criers stood on crates in the squares and in the market and shouted the results to those who could not see.

Glorfindel once again found himself stretched on the sand, but he had put up a significantly better fight. Ecthelion lifted him up again and accepted the flowers he gave, celandines like the ones Glorfindel wore on his mantle. Their smell was as familiar as the feeling of Glorfindel's palm in his own, although the criers did not report that. "We will fight together again," Glorfindel said to him, shaking the sand from his body, and Ecthelion's eyes widened.

"Together," Ecthelion repeated. Glorfindel did not elaborate, heading over to where the other eliminated contestants sat, but his eyes were fond. Ecthelion drew his sword and readied for his next opponent, the celandines lining the ring.

Times were changing; they could both sense it, Glorfindel with his dream-blind eyes and Ecthelion with his news from the seabirds. Yet it was summer in the hidden city with the Moon hanging high overhead—and where Glorfindel was, Ecthelion was, and they were at peace.


End file.
